


Every Second Is A Lifetime

by ninjamcgarrett



Series: Your Beating Heart [5]
Category: Football RPF, Real Person Fiction
Genre: Cuddling, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Meetings, Fluff, Implied Smut, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, and stevie speaking spanish guys, carra has a pool going with the rest of the team, how they met and fell in love, it's super cute and ridiculously wonderful, on when the boys will get over themselves and just shag already
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-05 18:04:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1827346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninjamcgarrett/pseuds/ninjamcgarrett
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It started with a sideways glance in the locker room that lasted just a fraction too long...</p><p>(What it was like the first day they met, how they got together, and how they fell in love.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Second Is A Lifetime

**Author's Note:**

  * For [griners](https://archiveofourown.org/users/griners/gifts).



> I don't even know what's happening anymore. First of three Gerlonso fic ideas that I had today. someoNE SEND HELP

It started with a sideways glance in the locker room that lasted just a fraction too long. Xabi’s first training session since signing with Liverpool had been that morning and Stevie had made sure the Spaniard was put through his paces, pushed to his limits. Stevie was protective of his team and their dynamic; he wanted to make sure that the newest addition to their ranks would be beneficial for them. He had actually been impressed with Xabi, especially by how well they gelled in the midfield. Xabi was quick, light with his touches, but that belied the strength, control, and speed he used when in possession of the ball. Given a few more practices to solidify their formations and show him the ropes, Stevie thought that Xabi would become an integral part of the squad.

After the first training though, as they were all in the locker room, showering, dressing, and talking, that’s when everything changed. Stevie glanced over, a question for Xabi on the tip of his tongue, but the words had died in his throat at the sight of Xabi in a towel that was riding low on his hips. The Spaniard’s skin still had a bit of a sheen to it after the showers and that did nothing but help accentuate the slopes and curves of well-developed muscle across his broad chest and hips. Stevie swallowed involuntarily, mouth suddenly dry, as Xabi looked over at him, caught his eye – and winked.

The fucking wanker had _winked_ at him, Stevie’s brain finally processed. Jamming a shirt and jeans on, Stevie managed to make it to the door of the locker room without making eye contact with Xabi again. Unfortunately, that was when Carra yelled, “Who fookin’ knicked my boxers?” and Stevie realized he had somehow put Carragher’s clothes on by accident. _Oh,_ Stevie thought, _this is not going to end well._

It didn’t. Weeks passed as Xabi slowly became more relaxed and friendly with the team. He was quick to joke and laugh with the others, his English improving every day. At one point, he even taught them all how to swear in Spanish – something that greatly annoyed Benítez and the assistant managers. Stevie, his hormones still going bonkers every time he looked at Xabi, became close friends with the Spaniard. Well, except for when he was tripping over his own two feet because he was too distracted by Xabi, or when he walked into walls because of Xabi, or trailed off mid-sentence in an interview because Xabi walked by. It became a recurring theme and Stevie just desperately hoped that the rest of the team didn’t notice. (They did; Carra was in charge of the betting pool with odds on how long before Stevie and Xabi got over themselves and shagged.)

The problem came when Xabi snaked a pass around Man City’s midfield, winging it far wide to Carra, while Stevie was yelling that he was open and on-side. Man City intercepted the pass and scored in the eighty-first minute. As the groans of Anfield reached his ears, Stevie swore that Xabi was a dead man after the match was over. Thankfully, they managed to salvage the game with a tie, walking away with a point and determined to come back swinging in the next match.

In the locker room, the rest of the team could sense Stevie’s foul mood and cleared out quickly, leaving him and Xabi behind. Stevie peeled off the last of his kit and headed for the showers, where Xabi was indulging in a long shower. Stevie picked a nozzle nearby and turned the water on full blast; he was practically vibrating with anger. Xabi stayed silent, glancing at him out of the corner of his eye, as if daring him to speak.

“What the hell were you thinking out there?” Stevie finally growled.

Xabi shrugged, as if the decision had been something as mundane as picking apples or oranges at the market. “That Jamie had the shot and could make it. Made sense from a logic standpoint.”

“He bloody well could not and you know it,” Stevie shot back. “You know I had that shot and was a helluva lot closer to you than fuckin’ Carra.”

Again, Xabi shrugged, rinsing a few soapsuds off his shoulders. “It’s not that big of a deal; we’ll get them next time.”

That was the final straw; Stevie snapped. He lunged for Xabi, slamming the both of them into the tiled shower wall. Xabi’s back landed against the tiles with a resounding, if slightly wet, thud as Stevie’s fingers dug into his shoulders.

“It.” Stevie enunciated. “Is. A. Very. Big. Deal.”

He was slightly pleased to see that he had Xabi’s full attention, the Spaniard’s dark brown eyes looking up defiantly into his own gray-green ones.

“Let me explain something to you, you bonehead. This is Liverpool. We play from the heart. We may not always win, but we can at least hold our heads high at the end of the day that we played with passion. If you want to play for a team that focuses more on playing from the head and logic, then you can fook off to Man United or back to Spain. But here,” Stevie jabbed his forefinger into Xabi’s chest over his heart, “here is where we play and where we feel it. That is our pride, our joy, our home. We care about how we play. And if I can’t get that through your head, then you should transfer right now.”

Xabi waited a beat as Stevie fell silent, chest heaving with the force of his words. “Are you done?” he asked softly.

Stevie nodded and Xabi took that as his cue to speak. “I come from a place where logic and tactical precision are everything. I’ve never played somewhere that the emotion has a place on the pitch as much as it does here. It’s – not easy getting used to. But it’s getting into my blood, I can feel it. Just give me time. You think I don’t love this team? Would I have put up with your bullshit that first week when you were trying to kill me if I didn’t love this team?”

That caught the Englishman by surprise. “You – you knew?”

Xabi nodded, a laugh forming. “Sí, Stevie. A man like you doesn’t do that to just everyone; he does it to the people he thinks can be good for the team. And he does it,” Xabi added quietly, “because he cares, because this team is his life, his heart, and he won’t let just anyone into it.”

Stevie was quiet for a moment for a moment, considering Xabi’s words. He nodded finally.

“Sorry for shoving you into the wall.”

He turned to leave but Xabi caught his wrist in one hand.

“Stevie?” When Stevie turned to look back over his shoulder at Xabi, the Spaniard spoke once more. “That wasn’t the only bone in the conversation.”

His grin was stretched wide across his face as comprehension dawned on Stevie’s face. Stevie looked down, seeing his own hard-on and catching sight of Xabi’s, and let out a groan.

“Bollocks, I – ” Stevie let loose a string of swearing in Spanish that made Xabi practically glow with pride.

“Glad to know it’s not just me,” Xabi said. “I _thought_ your being a hard-ass might be your twisted way of flirting.”

“I – flirting – _what_?” Stevie yelped, burying his head in his hands. “Bloody hell,” he moaned.

Xabi gently pulled Stevie back to him and pried the Englishman’s hands away from his face.

“There now, that’s better,” he murmured. “Can’t have you hiding from me when I try to kiss you.”

Stevie’s eyes flew wide at that and his spluttering was cut short by Xabi wrapping one hand through his hair and pulling him close for a kiss. It was better than scoring a goal, the elation flooding through his veins, overwhelming him, pulling him down and drowning him in the depths of the passion and energy in the kiss. Stevie was lost in the touch and taste of Xabi and he wouldn’t have it any other way. Water was still cascading all around them, the water turning to steam as they moved against one another, hands reaching, tongues exploring, sparks flying as their skin touched. Time slowed to a crawl and Stevie wished that this moment, this feeling would never end.

It was a long time before they left the showers.

–

Stevie knew it was love when he woke late one Sunday morning during the Christmas break. Wintry light was streaming in through the curtains, beams falling softly through the room and landing on Xabi lying next to him in bed, still asleep. The Spaniard was on his side, facing Stevie, one hand tucked under his chin, the other arm still flung out from where Stevie had fallen asleep on top of it. A peaceful, happy look was on Xabi’s face as he slept, unaware that Stevie was awake. As he drank in the sight of Xabi, Stevie was hit all at once with the realization he was in love.

In the six months since Xabi had joined the team, the two men had grown close, first as friends and then as lovers. During their down time, Stevie showed Liverpool and the greater north of England to Xabi, enjoying the adventures he had with Xabi, as the Spaniard grew more familiar with his new home. Xabi taught Stevie how to cook dishes from his homeland, how to tango and dance to flamenco music, laughing when Stevie tripped over his own two feet because he was too busy staring into Xabi’s eyes. And more often than not, Xabi stayed the night with Stevie in the Englishman’s large home. When Stevie had teased him about it, Xabi had smiled and explained that, when he had moved to Liverpool, he had bought a smaller bed than the one Stevie owned.

“No sense in fighting for space when you have a perfectly good and very large bed,” he said.

Stevie had laughed at that and said, “What good is the space when we end up cuddling in the center of it most of the time anyway?”

That early morning in December though, as Stevie watched the easy rhythm of Xabi’s breathing, he realized how perfectly their lives had meshed, on and off the field. They moved as one on the field, Xabi now letting his heart out when he was on the pitch. Stevie realized that though Xabi was quiet and still most of the time off the pitch, that same passion was infused with his actions, emanating from his heart to Stevie and their time together. He may not have been as vocal off the pitch as he was on, but Stevie had learned to read Xabi like a playbook and had fallen in love with all the little quirks that made Xabi, well, Xabi.

Stevie gently twined his fingers with Xabi’s and smiled. Waking up like this, with Xabi next to him, knowing that Xabi trusted him completely, was loyal to him and their club, and that they had the rest of the day and, perhaps, the rest of their lives together – it all felt incredibly right to Stevie. It felt like coming home after far too long on the road, like sinking into an ice bath after a rough match, like scoring the game-winning goal at Anfield in the eighty-ninth minute. Stevie realized that for the first time, outside of the club, his heart, his soul, was tied to something that set it aflame and made him smile more than he thought possible. This really was paradise.

He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the corner of Xabi’s mouth, smiling when the Spaniard nosed toward him, eyes still closed.

“Mmm, buenos días, mi amor,” came the sleepy reply.

Stevie’s grin widened; when Xabi first woke up in the morning, he usually slipped back into his native Spanish. The Englishman found it endearing and had begun picking up more of the language, his often comical attempts at speaking it making Xabi laugh as they laid in bed.

“Cómo hiciste dormir?” Stevie asked, butchering the pronunciation.

Xabi’s gentle laugh rumbled from his chest. “Bien, bien. But it should be ‘Dormir bien?’ Stevie. Where did you find that translation?”

Pretending to pout, Stevie muttered, “Fat lot of good the internet is.”

“Remind me never to abandon you when we go to Spain.”

At that, they both laughed and Xabi leaned forward, taking his time to kiss Stevie, the sheets tangled around their legs. After a moment, Stevie pulled back and buried his face in the crook of Xabi’s neck. He inhaled deeply, savoring the scent of Xabi, his arms wrapping tightly around the Spaniard.

Laughing softly, Xabi hitched one leg up over Stevie’s. “What’s with the – how do you say? – octopus hug?”

“Because I love you,” Stevie said quietly, heart thundering in his chest.

Xabi went completely still at that for only a fraction of a moment before he relaxed. He nuzzled his nose into Stevie’s hair and pressed a kiss there.

“About bloody time.”

Stevie peeked up from where he had hidden his face in Xabi’s shoulder. “What – you mean you knew?”

A serene smile appeared on Xabi’s face. “I had an idea but I’ve known that I love you for some time now.”

It took a second for that to sink into Stevie’s brain, the gears kicking into overdrive at that revelation.

“You – you love me?” he asked quietly.

Xabi nodded, still smiling. “I do, very much. I love you, Stevie.”

Letting out a yelp of happiness, Stevie rolled Xabi over to straddle him, kissing him wildly. Before his brain completely fried from the feel of Xabi beneath him, Stevie had one last thought that paradise wasn’t a place, but a person, a heart, a home – and that this was his paradise.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Better Than Love" by Hurt.


End file.
